by Lee Harris
I talked it over with Carlotta. She wanted to accompany me to Connecticut, but I asked her not to. I didn’t think there was much she could add to a discussion with Ivan Krassky, whoever he was—assuming he agreed to speak to me. She got on the phone and booked me on a flight the next morning to La Guardia. Where Jack and I live, on the north shore of the Long Island Sound, we’re on the way to Connecticut, and I thought maybe I’d stop and pick him up and we could enjoy a little time together if he weren’t locked into studying his law books. Then I sat down with Carlotta and asked her a lot of questions that had been troubling me.
“Do you know where Val went to high school?”
“In Buffalo,” she said. “Bennett High School, I think—like your name. It’s a big red brick building on Main Street. We’ve driven by it.” That confirmed what Bambi had told me.
“Did Matty and Clark go there, too?”
“I think so, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Do you know where Val lived in Buffalo?”
“I don’t think he ever mentioned it.”
“Jake said Val never talked about his family, that in college when he went home, he’d kind of fall off the face of the earth. Did you ever hear him talk about a family of any sort, his parents or the people he lived with after his parents went back to Europe?”
“He never talked about his parents, and he never talked about any other family. I assumed he lived with his parents. Most kids do.”
“Did he ever tell you when his parents left the U.S.?”
“Chris, I really hate these questions. I don’t think Val had anything to hide. I don’t think where he lived in high school or who he lived with or when his parents went back to Germany have any connection to what happened on Valentine’s Day.”
“I think they may,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because people don’t hatch full grown from eggs. Their history is part of them, and often this history gives us an inside picture of why certain things happen to them. Jack says everything connects to something.”
“Are you saying that you think Val did something once that made him deserve to be killed?”
“No. I’m saying there are strange things about his background, things that are hard to explain. His relationship to his parents is one of them. He wrote a will and never told you about it and didn’t leave a copy in his safe deposit box. That’s another. His birth certificate and what we’ve learned about the Krasskys of Connecticut is certainly weird. Most people have some family somewhere. He has none.”
“My father said something about that when I first brought Val home.”
“So I’m not the first person to ask these questions.”
“I asked some of them, too, Chris,” Carlotta said. “Eventually, it didn’t matter what the answers were. I loved him. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe his parents came to this country, had him, got into some trouble with the law, and left to save themselves. I didn’t marry Val’s mother and father; I married him. He’s honorable and good, and I don’t give a damn what his family is like.”
“I think Jake feels the same way about him. He said the best thing that could happen to him would be to have Val walk in the door and start to work again.”
“Jake’s a good person.” She seemed very down. “I’m scared, Chris. I’m really scared. You’re going to find something out in Connecticut that I don’t want to know. Maybe the real reason I want to go there with you is to prevent whatever it is from coming out.”
“Let’s face it when it happens, if it happens. I have some other questions. Bambi said Clark’s parents are dead. Did they die while you knew Clark?”
“No. Clark would have told Val. It must have happened years ago.”
“What about Matty?”
“What about him?”
“Did he have parents?”
“I assume so.”
“Did you see them at the funeral?”
“I don’t know. There were older people sitting with Annie. I couldn’t tell you who they were.”
“Do you mind if I call her?”
“Go ahead.” She looked bewildered, as though she had lost her way and didn’t know where the path would lead.
I went to Val’s study and made the call. Annie answered right away.
“Annie, this is Chris Bennett. I wanted to ask you about Matty’s family.”
“What family?”
“His parents, his brothers and sisters.”
“He was an only child.”
“Are his parents alive?”
“His father’s dead. His mother lives in England.”
“Was Matty born here?”
“Oh, yes. But his parents split up or something a long time ago, before I met him. His mother was from England originally, and she went back.”
“Did he keep in touch with her?”
“No, he didn’t,” Annie said. “He told me he had sided with his father during the divorce, and she refused to have anything to do with him. It’s too bad. She’s missed having grandchildren.”
“It is too bad,” I said, thinking, as I always did, that my mother would have loved to know her own grandchild, but she died over fifteen years ago. “Thanks, Annie.”
“You find anything yet?”
“Nothing very interesting,” I said, minimizing what I now knew.
“There probably isn’t anything to find. If Val’s body ever turns up, that’ll be the end.”
I agreed with what she said and ended the conversation.
12
I mulled everything over on the short flight to La Guardia the next day. Nothing seemed to lead anywhere, and every small piece of information I had uncovered had spawned a slew of unanswered questions. This is no way to go, Kix, I said to myself, using the nickname I had grown up with, the gift of my cousin Gene, who had been unable to say “Chris” at an early age.
I had even less hope now of finding Val alive, but I wanted to know who had killed whom and, if possible, why. Murdock had branded Val as Matty’s killer, and that unproven charge would stick if nothing else came to light. It might be true—it was very likely to be true—but I wanted to be convinced. And why, I kept asking myself, does a man take out an insurance policy on his life and then murder the beneficiary? Why not just cancel the policy or change the beneficiary?
Outside my window I could see the endless miles of New York’s buildings. I had never unfastened my seat belt, but the sign had just gone on, and I could hear the clicks of other passengers’ as they readied themselves for our descent and landing. It was a clear day, and the city looked almost sparkling. In a little while, I would be down where the sparkle was less evident, but for a few minutes I enjoyed the view.
Jack was waiting for me as I turned up the driveway. We had decided over the phone last night that I would stop and pick him up and we would drive to Connecticut together. He came outside and we hugged and kissed and did it all over again. Then he grabbed my suitcase, and we went inside together.
In the living room, I took my coat off and Jack gently patted my abdomen.
“Still pretty flat,” he said.
“With all I’ve been eating, it should be puffing out.”
“How was this morning?”
“About the same as yesterday. Carlotta actually brought me breakfast in bed. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve never been treated so luxuriously.”
“Not even by your husband. I see this case is going to change my life.”
“Not as much as this baby. Any word when they’re breaking ground for the addition?”
“It’s still any day. You thinking of staying away till they finish?”
“If you can live through it, I can. You ready for Connecticut?”
“Yup. I’ve got maps, addresses, routes, everything you need.”
“Great. Let me take a look at the mail, and then let’s go.”
I poured out everything I knew as Jack drove to Connecticut. He asked a number of questions,
and they were pretty much the ones I had no answers for. Somehow those Krasskys in Connecticut had to have the key to all this.
“I have to say,” Jack said, “that insurance policy is really intriguing. Did you tell Murdock about it?”
“No. There’s a lot I didn’t tell Murdock, including the birth certificate. He thinks his missing man is a killer. I don’t want to add any fuel to his hot theory.”
“What’s different about this is that there was no suspicion a crime had been committed till more than two months after it happened. So if there was something to find on land, it’s become obscured.”
“Melted away,” I said.
“Right. Like the footprints in the snow on the lake. You know, I think we’re almost there.”
I took another look at one of the maps, and then at the street sign we were just passing. “You’re right. Ivan Krassky’s house should be about two blocks from here. It looks like a right.”
“Nice area.”
“Beautiful. Look at those trees.”
Jack made the turn and drove slowly down a street lined with brick and stone houses shaded with old, large trees. “Should be a couple of houses down. Why don’t I park here and you can walk? It’s better if they don’t see me. I’ve been told I’m very threatening.”
I laughed out loud. “You? Threatening? If you’d been threatening, I’d still be single.”
“Watch what you say, lady. My whole career may go up in smoke.”
I leaned over and kissed him. Then I got out of the car and walked down the street.
The woman who opened the door was in her sixties or late fifties—I’m terrible at judging age—dressed in a denim skirt and a man-tailored shirt. She was pleasantly rounded, and her expression verged on a smile. “Yes?” she asked.
“Mrs. Krassky?”
“That’s me.”
“My name is Christine Bennett. I’m here because a man named Krassky was apparently killed in an accident a couple of months ago in western New York State.”
“A Krassky?”
“Yes. His first name was Valentine.” I watched her face change.
She shook her head. “That’s an odd coincidence.”
I handed her a copy of the newspaper article from the Buffalo paper. She read it, taking in a breath at the point where I assumed she was reading Val’s name and age. Finally she looked up. “Who did you say you were?”
I showed her my driver’s license, the only ID I carry with my picture on it. “I’m a friend of Val Krassky’s wife.”
“Come inside.”
I went into her living room and stood while she finished reading the article. “This must be a coincidence,” she said.
“His birth certificate is from Connecticut.”
“Just a minute. Let me get my husband.” She left the room, and I heard her call, “Ivan? Can you come inside for a minute?” Then the two of them walked into the living room. “Ivan, this lady—I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Chris Bennett.”
“Yes. She says a man named Valentine Krassky was killed in an accident in—” she searched the article “—in February. Good heavens. Did it happen on Valentine’s Day?”
“It did.”
“I’m Ivan Krassky,” the man said, offering me his hand. He was well into his sixties, I estimated, with a rather nice salt-and-pepper beard and hair to match. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I know there’s another Krassky in the area who had a child named Valentine about thirty-five years ago,” I said.
“That’s my brother.”
“And I’ve been told Valentine died as a child.”
“He did,” the wife said. “It was a terrible tragedy.”
“I thought perhaps you might have had a son with the same name,” I said, feeling a little silly.
“We have sons, but none with that name,” Ivan said.
“This accident on Lake Erie took the lives of three men, one of them named Valentine Krassky. His birth certificate says that his father’s name is Gregory, and it gives a Trumbull address and a local hospital.”
“It sounds like he’s an imposter.”
“Tell me how the child died,” I said, as we all sat.
“It was one of those childhood illnesses that took a turn for the worse,” Mrs. Krassky said. “He was only six or seven years old, poor little thing, and he couldn’t breathe. I think he actually died of pneumonia.”
“My brother and his wife never got over it.”
“I can understand that. Please bear with me. I’m trying to find an explanation for what looks like a strange coincidence, your nephew who died at the age of six or seven and a man exactly the same age with the same name who lived almost thirty years longer. Are you absolutely certain that child died?”
Husband and wife looked at each other. Then Ivan said, “As sure as I can be without having seen the body. We went to the funeral.”
“Greg and his wife donated little Val’s organs, the ones that weren’t harmed by the pneumonia,” Mrs. Krassky said. “They told us about it later. They got a call from the hospital, it must have been early morning, and were told Val had died. And then they were asked almost immediately if they would donate some of his organs. You can imagine how they felt, the shock of learning their son was dead and having to make that terrible decision, all at once. I don’t know how they survived it.”
“Then they weren’t with him when he died?”
“They’d gone home for the night. After they brought him in, he seemed to be improving. The doctor said there was nothing to worry about. Then they got the call.”
“Do you know if they actually saw their son’s body after he died?”
They looked at each other. “I don’t think it was ever mentioned,” she said. “It’s not the sort of thing you ask.”
“Are you trying to say Val didn’t die?” Ivan asked.
“I’m just trying to understand what happened. A thirty-five-year-old man apparently died in a lake accident near Buffalo on Valentine’s Day. His wife knew him as Valentine Krassky. In his safe deposit box was the birth certificate for your nephew. Val obtained it when he applied for a passport a couple of years ago. From what we’ve been able to find out, Val’s early life is a little cloudy. He told his wife his parents were from East Germany and had to return there. According to her, he had no contact with them. No letters came from Germany, no phone calls were made there in the last year. I checked the phone bills myself.”
“There has to be a simple answer for this,” Ivan said. He was clearly perturbed. He got up, tugged at his beard, walked around the living room. “A child died and is reincarnated in another place? I don’t buy it.”
“I don’t buy that either,” I assured him. “I’m looking for a reasonable explanation.”
“Ivan,” his wife said, “wasn’t there some funny business in the hospital when Val died?”
Ivan stopped and thought for a moment. “There was. It’s so long ago, I’d almost forgotten. Greg threatened to sue.”
“They made a settlement,” she said. “It never got to court.”
“What did they want to sue about?” I asked.
“Some kind of malpractice or malfeasance. They left a child who was improving, and they buried a child who died a few hours later. My sister-in-law probably blames herself to this day that she didn’t stay overnight in Val’s room.”
“But they actually settled? The hospital paid your brother and his wife to keep it out of court?”
“Absolutely,” Ivan said. “You know,” he turned to his wife, “I haven’t thought about that for a long time. Sure they got paid.”
“And they moved,” his wife said. “Irene said she couldn’t bear to live in that house with Val’s room as if he might come back at any time. I have no idea how much they got, but I’m sure they used some of it to buy the new house.”
“Maybe my next stop should be the hospital,” I said.
“I doubt th
ey’ll tell you anything,” Ivan said. “They’ve probably got those records sealed up so tight they can’t find them themselves.”
“Maybe someone there will remember.” I stood. “Could you give me the name of the hospital?” I passed him my notebook and a pen. “Was the little boy buried in a cemetery around here?”
“Gate of Heaven,” Mrs. Krassky said. “It’s not far.”
I added that in my notebook when Ivan handed it back to me. He had scribbled some driving instructions to the hospital, and I thanked him.
“I hope you’ll let us know what happens. This is very intriguing. You’ve got me wondering about that whole sad episode all over again. If someone in that hospital grabbed that little boy, called Greg, and said he’d died and they needed to take his organs to give to some deserving kid, who would know, if they never saw Val dead?”
“Nothing fits yet, Mrs. Krassky. When—if—I put it together, I’ll let you know.” I wrote down my name, address, and phone number and gave it to them. “Thank you for your help.”
They walked me to the door, and I went down the block to where Jack was standing unthreateningly outside the car, taking in the fresh air and sunshine.
I briefed him on my conversation with the Krasskys as we drove to the hospital.
“Their business office may not be open today,” Jack said. “It’s Saturday, in case you’ve forgotten. You folks who work every day of the week sometimes forget that weekend schedules are different.”
“I know. But just on the chance that someone’s there, let’s try. I can always come back on Monday.”
“Anyway, it’s a nice day for a drive.”
The front desk directed me to a small office where one woman sat at a desk covered with papers. I did my best but it was a fruitless mission. She said she didn’t have access to old records on the weekend, that a thirty-year-old case was pre-computer, and the paper files would be locked up in the basement, inaccessible until Monday. When she was all finished telling me why she couldn’t possibly help me, she added that probably no one else would help me either, on Monday or any other day, since medical records were private and I was not considered an interested party. Then she smiled and said she had a lot of work to do and would I excuse her.